ry in the
world lies between Mayence and Cologne. If you take the railroad you
will merely _escape_ it in a few hours; if a steamboat, your curiosity
will be excited, but not gratified; it will all vanish like a dream:
take a boat, my good American friend,--take a boat.'

"Between Mayence and Bingen the Rhine attains its greatest breadth. It
is studded with a hundred islands. Its banks are continuous
vineyards. Here is the famous district called the Rheingau, which
extends along the right bank of the river, where the Rhine wines are
produced.

[Illustration: MAYENCE.]

"It is all a luxurious wine-garden,--the Rheingau. The grapes purple
beside ruins and convents, as well as on their low artificial
trellises, and everywhere drink in the sunshine and grow luscious in
the mellow air.

"Castles, palaces, ruins, towers, and quaint towns all mingle with the
vineyards. A dreamy light hangs over the scene; the river is calm, and
the boat drifts along in an atmosphere in which the spirit of romance
seems to brood, as though indeed the world's fairy tales were true.

"We came in sight of Bingen.

"'We must stop there,' said Willie Clifton.

"'Why?' I asked curiously.

"'Because--well--

"For I was born at Bingen,--at Bingen on the Rhine."'

"He then repeated slowly and in a deep, tender voice the beginning of
a poem that almost every schoolboy knows:--

'A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,
There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears;
But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away,
And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say.
The dying soldier faltered, as he took that comrade's hand,
And he said, "I nevermore shall see my own, my native land:
Take a message and a token to some distant friends of mine;
For I was born at Bingen,--at Bingen on the Rhine."'

"Bingen is a town of about seven thousand inhabitants, and is engaged
in the wine trade. We visited the chapel of St. Rochus, on a hill near
the town, because one of our party had somewhere read that Bulwer had
said that the view from St. Rochus was the finest in the world.

"Again upon the river, all the banks seemed filled with castles,
villages, and ruins. Every hill had its castle, every crag its gray
tower. We drifted by the famous Mouse Tower, which stands at the end
of an island meadow fringed with osier twigs. It is little better
than a square tower